


A Manner Unbefitting

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, Outdoor Sex, just dads being dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27981531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: The lust of battle often gives way to a different sort of rush. The Armies of the East and West join in the field, and so do their commanders afterwards.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68





	A Manner Unbefitting

_Hithlum, 454 F.A._

Eru loved the elves, or so the lore-masters said. Fingon had heard of lore-masters, and thought the concept very funny indeed. Were they not _all_ masters of lore, who had lived since before the Moon and Sun? It was no small feat to think why Men had thought his cousin Finrod a "god," as they said, come over from Valinor to teach them wisdom. To such short-lived creatures, surely they must be as such. And as a lore-master himself, then, Fingon was no longer certain that Eru _did_ love the elves. Every time he saw the land scorched and blackened, ran red and black with blood of enemies and allies alike, he doubted that love, and doubted the wisdom of Men, who thought Elves could be above war, drudgery, and pain.

When he'd heard Finrod's tale of Men, he had laughed.

But seeing Maedhros ride to battle, every time, he felt the same stirring in his breast, as if he were looking at something that even the Elder Children of Illuvatar should avert their eyes from, should they not wish to be burned out.

Fingon was greedy for the sight. More, he was greedy for the one who rode there, and took full liberties with his position. "Maedhros!" he cried, when the last wave of orcs was routed, and their allied forces cheered. "Ride with me! The Kings of the East and West must see the final end to it!"

It took a moment for Maedhros to come out of his battle lust. Fire shone hot in his face; Fingon thought Maedhros might have slain as many orcs as all the rest of them put together, his fine army in silver and white. The Marchwardens were terribly fierce, each of them fighting in a blaze of red, and every stroke gave Fingon hope for their alliance.

Maedhros's eyes cleared at last, and he flashed Fingon a fierce grin. "Aye, my Prince!" he cried, and his stallion leaped forward as if spurred on by his heart rather than his legs.

They rode, a streak of red and blue twined together over the great plains. At first, they heard their soldiers cheering them, but even that faded away. Maedhros was laughing with the exhilaration of battle won, Fingon was laughing as he had not for years, and around them, grass was starting to thrust through the soil in the Mountains of Shadow.

They rode, until the horses were panting for breath, then reined in to a stop. Fingon dismounted, and Maedhros followed. He held out his hand, and had Maedhros's in it, and kissed him.

"Look," he breathed, nodding at the vast expanse of plain when Maedhros was looking at him, only him, as if he were the only thing in Middle-Earth worth seeing. "Look what we will have, when the battle is done. Look at all we will gain."

Still Maedhros gazed at him, tracing the lines of his face. "I am."

"Maedh--"

Even with one hand, Maedhros was _strong_. Between hand and stump he took Fingon by the waist and hoisted him up, pressing him back against a tree, pressing him there with obvious, untamed want. He burned, the heat of him through his clothing sending a rush of danger and desire through Fingon. Maedhros took his mouth, kissed it hard, still holding Fingon off the ground simply with the weight and strength of his body. "My King," he said, voice a low, husky murmur.

He often began thus. But Fingon didn't think, catching the heat in Maedhros's gaze, that this would be one of their games where Maedhros dropped eagerly to his knees and presented his wrists to be bound.

He was like a creature of naked fire, and Fingon nodded breathlessly, giving all permission, and let himself be consumed. There was something exquisite in surrendering to such a one.

At least, Fingon hoped it was exquisite. Maybe he just really enjoyed the way Maedhros's thick cock stuffed him full, making him groan with the stretch, shuddering against the warm bark of the tree at his back. His nails raked at Maedhros's back, sliding and catching on old scars through his shirt. Both of them were making rough, bestial little noises, clinging and rocking with abandon, as if what they created between them was somehow independent of either.

The heat of Maedhros was so intense, so carnal, that Fingon could swear Maedhros was fucking it into him. He felt it blossom deep in his belly, and he groaned as it surged in him, making him wrap his legs around Maedhros and writhe, all for the sake of some purchase, some grounding in this world.

It was rare, that they made love without speaking. Usually one or both of them needed it--Fingon, because it drove him wild, Maedhros, to keep him grounded. Now, Maedhros looked at him as if he never needed to see anything else, and Fingon shuddered, and surrendered, letting Maedhros take him to the edge of bliss, and beyond.

Slowly, as the night settled around them, Maedhros let him slide down, until his feet touched the ground. His arms were powerful, holding Fingon to his chest, as if afraid to let him go for even a moment. It took an hour, perhaps two, for Maedhros to truly come back to himself, blinking wide grey eyes as he looked around. "Are we on Eithel Sirion?"

"Mm." Fingon stretched up onto his tiptoes, and planted a kiss on the tip of Maedhros's nose. "We do appear to be. We really do seem to be drawn to mountaintops for this sort of thing, don't we?"

"In fairness, it has historically worked out well for us."

"Minus the Thangorodrim."

"On the contrary, the bit with you was the best part of the whole affair."

"You mean the bit where I cut off your hand."

Maedhros planted another kiss on his lips. "Yes."

Well, he could hardly argue with that. Fingon gave him a sheepish little grin, and reached down to grab his breeches, only to be stopped by Maedhros, still holding him. "Mm. Let me dress."

"No."

"Is this the sort of thing where you want me to give you orders, as your King?"

"Well, always," Maedhros admitted, with a one-sided grin. "But I would ask that my King allow me to hold him for just another minute."

"Can you _not_ hold me with breeches on?"

"Hmm. I think I _can_. But why risk it?"

"You are in _quite_ a mood, _arimelda_. Are you always so ardent after battle?"

"Yes," Maedhros said, as if this was entirely normal.

"...Oh."

"Are you not?"

"Well...I suppose," Fingon admitted. "But I thought that was just the sort of thing you weren't supposed to talk about."

"Secrets?" Maedhros teased. "Between us, even now? There aren't even breeches between us."

"Because you are holding my breeches hostage."

"No, I am holding _you_."

"You are using your height to an unfair advantage."

"Then free yourself." Maedhros's eyes danced. Fingon's breath caught. Would that he could live forever, in such a sight, regarded with such a gaze. "You know how."

Fingon considered, then decided he was being goaded, and must respond. "Very well." He cleared his throat, and opened it to announce that King Fingon of Dor-Lómin, High Prince in Middle-Earth demanded his release--

Only to have Maedhros's tongue stuck firmly into his mouth.

He squeaked, for all the world as if he were a youth barely into his majority rather than a Lord of a fell and dangerous people. Maedhros laughed into his mouth, and Fingon sighed, deciding to wait for his revenge until a better time.

Finally, when night had truly fallen and the moon was high, a horn echoed through the mountains--two short blasts, then one long. Fingon grimaced. "Oops. Right, let me go truly now, I must answer."

Maedhros released him, finally tugging up his own breeches. They were stained black with orc blood, but he didn't seem to notice.

Fingon found his own breeches, then took the horn from his saddle, blowing once long, then twice short. "We are about to be scolded," he informed Maedhros.

"Oh, I should say so," Maedhros agreed, looking unrepentant. "But he cannot scold me so hard I will not have had you."

"Is this a mood I can activate whenever I like?" Fingon enquired, raising an eyebrow. "On command? Or is it something to be watched for?"

Maedhros's face flickered in confusion. "What? Do you...am I not being active enough, is that what--"

"No, no," Fingon said quickly, as the sound of hoofbeats made his sensitive ears quiver. "You were just so..." He shivered, despite the summer night's warmth. "It just seemed to be a different mood. And I like it. As I like all of your moods, to be sure. I was merely surprised to see a new one, after all this time."

Maedhros tied his hair back, poorly, and gave him a little half-shrug, and a smile. "I have hope," he said bluntly. "For the first time in a very long time. I think..." He trailed off, turning to stare at the long-away fortress of Angband, and the fiery peaks of the Thangorodrim towering above the plains of Dor Daedeloth. "I think I feel his fear. He knows I am coming for him. It makes me feel...powerful, in a way I had thought lost to me."

Fire leaped in Fingon's breast. "We will show him fear," he promised. "He will know fear, for each of the deeds he has done--to both of us, and to all the Eldar."

"Ada?"

Fingon turned, and saw the slender figure of Ereinion riding up. He was clad in silver-blue, spear in his hand, his helm pulled free after the battle so the long strands of dark brown hair could stream behind him. He looked like a fine young prince indeed, Fingon thought fondly. "Hello! Are they looking for us?"

"They are." Ereinion gave what Fingon thought was intended to be a very stern scowl. "Ada, please. You are the King of Dor-Lómin, you shouldn't be running about after a battle like this. What if there were stray orcs who ran up here to escape afterwards?"

"I would have killed them," Maedhros answered calmly.

Ereinion whirled on him. "And you're no better! Where are your boots? You're the Lord of Himring, not some peasant human at a fertility festival! Have some dignity!"

Maedhros turned away, but not fast enough to hide a grin.

"I saw that!"

"What would you know of peasant humans and fertility rituals?" Fingon asked, doing his level best not to laugh in Ereinion's face when he was being scolded. "Is there something you aren't telling us?"

"I can certainly tell you more!" Ereinion said, and put his hands on his hips, for all the world as if _he_ were one of the peasant women he were discussing. "Such as how you're acting in a manner unbefitting--stop laughing! That's so rude!"

As if Fingon's laughter were a signal, Maedhros's shoulders started to quake, as Ereinion's face turned steadily redder. "I'm very disappointed in both of you!" he tried, but that sent Fingon down to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

"I'm s-sorry," he gasped. "You just--sound so much--like my grandmother--"

"You're such a fussy child," Maedhros choked out, wiping his hand down his face.

"I'm not fussy! Ada! You are embarrassing yourself!"

"Don't t-t-talk to your K-King that way," Fingon forced out, and Maedhros let out a strange snorting sound, slumping down next to Fingon.

"And you're sending _me_ away for being too young for war?" Ereinion demanded, his face so red it was nearly purple. "With the two of you, acting like, like..."

"Like what?" Maedhros grinned like a loon, with humor dancing in his eyes in a way that once, Fingon had thought gone forever. "Acting like what?"

Ereinion folded his arms in front of his chest. "Like a pair of foolish puppies!"

Maedhros sighed, and wiped the tears from his face. "Thank you, Ereinion. That was delightful."

"Why is that your reaction to being reprimanded? Why have you no shame?"

"Do you hear that, Finno?" Maedhros asked, still amused. "Your son thinks we have no shame."

"He thinks we should be _very_ ashamed," Fingon agreed, mock-serious. "For what, exactly?"

"For," Ereinion said, trying to glare daggers at him, "sneaking off right after battle, leaving your armies on the plain, and...frolicking! Outside!"

"Were you frolicking?" Fingon asked mildly. "I don't remember frolicking, precisely."

"Mm, I haven't frolicked in years. Can't, with only one hand."

"True, I'd forgotten."

"That doesn't make any sense!" Ereinion snapped. "You are _supposed_ to be past the time of life when such _urges_ drive you!"

"I knew we'd forgotten something," Fingon said with a sigh. "It must have been to grow old and decrepit and uninterested in each other."

"Was that it? I thought it was that I'd left the inkwell uncapped again."

"Might be both, frankly."

"Both of you, put your boots on. _Ada_ , your breeches are on backwards!"

Fingon nodded seriously. "It must have been the frolicking. Varda's stars, you're a serious child sometimes."

"Well, someone has to be!"

"I left the army with _you_ ," Fingon told him, though the effect was somewhat lessened when he was forced to take off his breeches again and put them on right way around. "You're always asking for command and responsibilities."

That seemed to take Ereinion aback, though he clearly was still unsure whether he was being teased. "Well...you should have warned me!"

"Oh, should I? And will there be warning, if I fall in battle and you must lead the armies of the Hithlum?"

"I--no, but--"

"See, your father was just preparing you," Maedhros informed Ereinion seriously, bending to use the strange buckles his brother had designed for him on his boots. "But I'm certain he'll forget your rudeness if you apologize properly."

Ereinion looked offended, and doubtful, casting Fingon a hesitant look. He opened his mouth, then looked back at Maedhros, huffing in outrage. "You are mocking me, Lord Maedhros!"

"Yes, I am."

"I shall not forget it." Ereinion paused for dramatic effect. "I will...I will put soup in your bed. I will...I will learn all of your favorite lays, and refuse to speak of them to you!"

Fingon exchanged an almost pitying look with Maedhros. "We must make love more often," Fingon said sadly. "He needs siblings, desperately."

" _Ada!_ "

"Sorry, am I supposed to be on your side?"

" _Yes!_ "

Maedhros patted Ereinion's knee, and finished with his belt, finally swinging back up into his saddle. "There, now, we've been scolded and we are coming." His eyes were shrewd, and he mentioned, almost offhand, "I think he's worried we didn't see, Finno."

Fingon swung up into his own saddle, and caught the suddenly eager, hesitant look in Ereinion's eye. "Ahh," he said softly. "You think we missed it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ereinion blustered, not meeting his eyes.

"You think," Maedhros said, turning his horse so he was near Ereinion, looking down from at least a foot higher, "that we didn't see you kill the enemy Captain."

"Well...not that it matters...but you didn't say anything."

"It was well done," Fingon told him, and saw Ereinion's head come up, a bit of eager relief in his face. "Your spear went right through his head, didn't it? The thrust was perfect, and routed what little morale they had left. We had a far easier time of it since you were here."

"Then you aren't sending me away?" Ereinion asked, hope bobbing up in him like a floating apple.

"No, I'm still sending you to the Falas," Fingon said, and patted his shoulder. "But with pride, to lead their people."

"But I want to stay with you! I want to fight with you, with both of you!"

"And I tell you, you will go to the Falas."

Ereinion's mouth snapped shut. He looked as if he wanted to throw something, perhaps another fit, but was too concerned with his own dignity. He really did need siblings, Fingon thought, with a twitch of his lips at the idea of how much he would have enjoyed throwing his brother off of his horse if he acted like that.

"If the Seer's dreams are wrong, you will come back soon," Maedhros reassured him, and mussed Ereinion's hair, as Fingon had seen him to do his own brothers a thousand times or more. "And if they are right, we will fight all the more fiercely, thinking that it is you we are protecting."

"And I am not to be allowed to keep you safe?" Ereinion asked, looking up at Maedhros, eyes wide and beseeching. "Ada says you fight too fiercely, as if you cannot believe you could ever fall."

"He's right," Maedhros said, not bothering to hide it, and Fingon's heart clenched. "If I believe I might fall, I might hesitate. And that is something I cannot do. You must learn to do the same."

Ereinion sighed, and firmed his shoulders. "Yes, Lord Maedhros," he said, as formally as if he had never ridden on Maedhros's broad shoulders on the walls of Himring. "I won't fail you. Either of you."

Before Fingon could say anything else, he turned, and kicked his mare forwards, loping down the mountain path to rejoin the troops.

Fingon nudged his own warhorse forwards, bringing it level with Maedhros, as they started down the road at a more sedate pace. "You are so good with him."

"He is a good child," Maedhros answered softly. "So serious, though. We must tease him even more, this next week, so he does not forget to laugh when we are parted."

"And this is coming from you," Fingon remarked wryly. "Hardly known for your mirth."

"I laugh when something is funny," Maedhros said mildly. "Do I not?"

"I think I've mostly heard you laugh in battle."

"Sometimes battle is amusing."

"And sometimes it makes you hard."

"Yes, but so do you, to be fair. Battle with you at my side, I don't stand a chance."

"Then I suppose I shall always have to be at your side," Fingon said, and reached out to tug a strand of loose copper-colored hair. "To make you laugh, and to make you hard, and to braid your hair afterwards, it looks horrendous."

"Then how lucky I am," Maedhros said, turning to look at him once more as if he were all the Valar had promised to the Children of Illuvatar, "that my husband is a warrior, and a delight, and good with his hands."

Warmth blossomed in Fingon's chest. "Yes," he said, and brought that strand of hair to his mouth, and kissed it. "You are lucky indeed."

**Author's Note:**

> I am frankly dithering around writing cute porn of these two for the next couple installments because then I won't get to anymore (:


End file.
